I Am Who I Am
by BowtieJunkie
Summary: It's odd to think about how comfortable he's become around them. Not too long ago he would never have stayed so long in one place, quick to forget faces and names... Now, he wouldn't trade where he is for just about anything. However, there's always something—someone—that points out what he'd rather overlook. Maybe Natasha's doubts are a good thing.
1. I Am Who I Am

**A drabble based on the dialogue prompt, "Don't look so shocked. I am who I am" for romanoffnotromanova.**

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She leaned back, balancing her weight in her heels so the small spark of pain centralized in her abdomen would have time to dissipate without further strain. She glanced over at her teammate. It had been a mistake for S.H.I.E.L.D. to send him with her. This wasn't his kind of work. He posed more a threat than their enemies had, and it was a liability she wouldn't forget any time soon. If only she knew her thoughts mirrored his.

If there was any indication of Bruce's disgust, she must have picked up on it. For now, he'd carefully masked the rising bile in the back of his throat and pushed back the terrifyingly close grip of the other half of his personality. Now would not be the time to lose control—not when the dangerous gleam in Natasha's eyes remained, darting to him when he shakily cleared his throat. He shouldn't be here. This was the last place they should have sent him. He was better off in the tower, puttering with his experiments and helping in the aftermath of any such events. Fumbling with his glasses and cursing his luck to be the only free member of the team at the moment, as well as the foremost expert of his trade, he tried not to notice the blood pooling on the floor beneath the still bodies surrounding them and instead tried to focus on the rest of the mission. He could let his emotions go later, after enough meditation to keep the Hulk silent. "We should go. I have the files and I don't think they're…" He made the mistake of allowing himself a glance at the nearest body, and he swallowed and willed his voice to come back. "I don't think they're in the position to stop us at the moment. Now would be the best time."

Natasha blinked at him, and he had to remind himself that she had just killed ten men because the persona she usually used around him and the rest of the team was a far cry from what he'd seen today, or even what he remembered from fragments of the battle in New York. The other guy surged against his walls and Bruce unconsciously tightened his grip around the small drive in his hand. A mistake.

She was looking at his hand when he realized what he was doing, and he slowly loosened his fingers. He was about to speak again when her voice cut quietly through the thick silence.

"You're sure that those are the files? This is the only opening we have. Anything after this, and it will be impossible to come back."

Not impossible, Bruce noted, but highly unlikely, and he hated the way she seemed to look straight into his soul to the darkness of the Hulk. No argument. He nodded. "Everything is here," he said, indicating the object that he was moving to push into the laptop bag he'd carried. It wouldn't do to lose it now.

Natasha was still staring at him, cold and calculating, enough to add fear to the mix of feelings threatening to break the wall in his mind. He'd had enough time to strengthen it, at least, and when she suddenly turned, stepping carefully around still forms of the last few unlucky men to stand in her way, he started not too far behind, ignoring the squelching sound of blood on tile as they walked past. They had been in and out quickly, no time for death without evidence. It was a clear enough message to send to their enemies, even if Bruce always hoped to avoid bloodshed. It was the nature of the beast, of course, and he couldn't fight what he couldn't control. He had a hard enough time as it was.

They reached the jet within five minutes and Natasha had it in the air within another four—four because of wing damage they sustained while landing under fire. He's been assured the jet would fly once it was in the air. No words were exchanged other than what was necessary and the entire trip back to the helicarrier was made in oppressive silence. Bruce took the time to shut his eyes and focus on the raging center of his mind, every technique he knew used to push it back to something manageable and less harmful than before.

Briefing began fifteen minutes after landing, only exchanging important information and the details of what they underwent throughout the mission. Bruce got his orders to analyze the data they collected. Natasha was to be sent on another mission—this time solo— somewhere that Bruce didn't quite catch. It wasn't until they both stepped into the hallway to go their seperate ways that Natasha stopped him. "You've been wanting to say something to me." It wasn't a question. How she could possibly know what was going through his mind, Bruce had no idea.

Now Bruce never claimed to be an expert on psychology, though he probably knew more than most, but the change he'd seen in the agent had been… The closest he could say was that it was nearly akin to his shift in nature when he allowed the Hulk free reign. He hardly recognized Romanoff, with the apathetic technique behind each individual fight, and the way she'd looked at him afterwards, as if he too was going to turn on her and she would leave him bleeding out the same as any of the others. He knew—or at least thought—she wouldn't. "I've never seen you fight like that," he admitted.

The way her eyes narrowed after the words left his mouth didn't bode well for him. "Don't look so shocked. I am what I am."

"I thought it was against S.H.I.E.L.D.'s policy to kill without purpose." The words were gone before he could stop them.

"You should know, Dr. Banner, that S.H.I.E.L.D does not dictate all of my actions."

"And they're okay with that?"

"I was doing my job and nothing more. What about you, Dr. Banner?" The unspoken 'when you've killed as many as the rest of us'. Honestly he should have expected it, because he and Natasha had never been particularly close and he'd nearly killed her before, and it was hard to place your trust in someone that could turn at any minute. He couldn't blame her. They both had their monsters to fight, and he didn't have the right to question her motives. He hesitated, trying to think of something to say, and when nothing came, he turned away with a muttered apology. He slipped his glasses from his pocket to sit on the bridge of his nose, suddenly the solitude of the lab and his research sounding much more promising than before.

"Good luck, doctor."

When he turned to return the favor, Natasha was gone.


	2. Iris

He knew the team would be there this time. He didn't mind. Usually, they could find it in themselves not to bother him when it really mattered, and right now… When he finally made it back to America, and recent events came to a close, Bruce had taken Tony up on his earlier offer of just about anything the normally mild-mannered scientist could need. He'd been hesitant at first, but this had been something on his mind for a long time, something tangible he could make peace with. So when he'd arranged for regular flights to visit Dayton, Ohio, Tony hadn't asked any questions, agreeing almost immediately.

Bruce didn't have good memories of Dayton. It reminded him of the darkness earlier in his childhood, of the angry words his father once through around which now, in an impetuously ironic way, rang true. But it also reminded him of his mother; her kindness even through what must have been the most difficult years of her life. And Bruce felt that he owed her this much, at least, to visit her whenever he had the chance.

It was… childish, a voice in the back of his head told him, but he talked to her as if she were there, as if she could hear him. He'd believed that a long time ago—heaven and guardian angels—that somehow she was still watching over him, but it'd long been beaten out. Now it was minimal comfort, a way he could get things off his chest without confronting his teammates, likely just as quick to judge as any others, though he'd never chanced opening to them. Here he would speak of missions and fears, of memories, whether good or bad, of the monster within or those he'd faced in the world, and perhaps it was as if his mother was listening.

Today, there would be no talking, only silent respect as he leaned down to place the flowers on his mother's grave, this time a favorite of hers. Irises—he remembered them from a photo album he'd salvaged. It was cold, and he knew they would not survive for long, but he would be staying around a little longer than the rest of the team, who had been chasing down something or the other. Bruce had pushed the mission from his mind.

He was aware of someone stepping up beside him, though he never remembered anyone following him to the cemetery, and a quick glance and a glimpse of fiery hair, contrasting with the frosted surroundings, told him it was Natasha. He allowed the silence carry on for a few minutes, enjoying the company, though he felt, after some time, that there was something to say.

"My mother," he started, unsure what he planned to say, but still allowing the words to spill out. "I don't remember everything. I was too young and it was a long time ago. But I remember… I remember she used to say that irises were her favorite because of what they symbolized. Faith, wisdom, valour, and friendship… But she said that what mattered the most was hope. Without hope there is nothing… I didn't understand then, but now…" He shook his head slowly. "I'm not going to pretend that what I've done—what _any_ of us has done—can be forgiven and fixed with a concept alone, but… it was that which brought us all together, and it is hope that still fuels us even now. I think my mother was… much smarter than anyone gave her credit for."

He looked up, finally meeting her eyes. "I'm sorry… about last week… and this." He shifted in his jacket, feeling the cold for the first time and glanced up at the darkening sky. It would probably snow soon. "It's…" He paused, not sure if he wanted to say what he had planned. He felt too exposed, too open. He buried that thought along with the rest. Probably best to keep to himself. "I'm sorry," he muttered once again, and he couldn't be sure if it was aimed at Natasha or his mother.


End file.
